


It Never Rains in California

by wraithe



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 14:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18527101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithe/pseuds/wraithe
Summary: Trying to find a life for herself beyond the one she was assigned to as a baby, Allison finds herself near the end of her rope. Then fate steps in in an unexpected way, and she suddenly has a very big decision to make.





	It Never Rains in California

“ _Seems it never rains in Southern California...”_

But it does, and currently is, great sheets of water pelting the bus as the wipers make feeble and ultimately futile attempts to keep the broad front windows useful. There are cars all around them, the roads in Los Angeles are always thick with traffic, but Allison can't even see far enough into the blinding downpour to spot the ones in the nearest lane. Instead, she focuses on the man across from her, the one holding the radio. It looks like something resurrected from the '70s, silver and too large for the job, and it bleeds tinny notes from the equally anachronistic easy listening station that now fills his end of the bus.

The man is as odd as his old radio, wearing some furry tan coat that looks to have been taken off the woman that previously owned his radio. He has on no shirt underneath it. His trousers are track pants, one leg hiked up and caught into the top of the bright blue cowboy boots he is sporting underneath them. He catches her looking at him and grins. It's an enthusiastic and slightly mad smile, one that takes up his whole face and crinkles his kohl-lined eyes. Something squeezes her heart. She doesn't want to give a name to it but the music does it for her.

_“Out of work, I'm out of my head, Out of self-respect, I'm out of bread, I'm underloved, I'm underfed, I want to go home...”_

She is so determined to do this on her own. Not that her father would have given her a nickel once she walked out of his house, but she isn't concerned with what he thinks anymore. He'd ruled her and her siblings with an iron fist their whole lives. It isn't any wonder they were flittering away as fast as they could once they reached maturity, sand running out of a broken hourglass. She isn't just a two-dimensional character, the side plot in Reginald Hargreeves's superhero novel. She is a real person with real dreams and talents. She wanted them to see her for all that she could be. She is more than Number Three. Unfortunately, if she isn't using her powers or cashing in on her family's notoriety, no one in the soulless damn town wants anything she is peddling.

_“Please don't tell 'em how you found me...”_

The music is interrupted by the crunch of metal collapsing in on itself and shattering glass. The world jolts sideways and back again so rapidly Allison's head collides with the window next to her, which fractures into a thousand pieces. The tiny diamonds fly everywhere, nestling in her clothes and hair and slicing her scalp open. When the motion stops she surveys the bus's interior in a daze. A few people have been thrown to the floor; others are shouting or sobbing but no one appears to have been seriously injured. Impossibly, the radio is still playing, although now it has skittered under a seat somewhere.

_“It never rains in California, but girl don't they warn ya? It pours, man it pours.”_

Something wet is running into her eyes. Gingerly, Allison brushes her fingers across her newly slippery head. They come back bloody, and she stares mutely at them for a moment. She feels as if she should be doing something, but her brain can't quite seem to kick into the next gear. When a glob of blood, fat, hot and shocking red against her pale skirt hits her lap, she jumps to her feet. The world only wobbles for a second as she races to the door, her mind focused only on one thing: getting off this steel death trap.

Ignoring the protests of the bus driver _“are you crazy lady?”_ and her fellow passengers, _“honey, you don't want to go out there, you'll get soaked,”_ Allison pushes her way through the sliding door. The rain hits her full force, soaking her and washing away the glass and blood.

 _I left my umbrella on the seat,_ she thinks. _Umbrella, umbrella, umbrella._ The word rattles around her head and she begins to giggle.

“What? No! Are you deaf?” The man in front of her shouts. His salt and pepper hair is cut expensively and he is standing next to a freshly creased Jaguar. He is dressed in head to toe Armani and sheltered from the storm by an umbrella held in place over him by a bedraggled young man. It takes a moment for her sluggish brain to process that he is speaking into a Bluetooth headpiece and the unfortunate and very wet young man is probably his assistant. “No! I am not all right! Didn't you just hear me? I was hit by A FRICKING BUS!!”

“Are you okay, miss?” the assistant asks, his wide eyes in sharp relief on his pale face.

“I uh... I think I have a concussion...”

“You should probably wait on the bus for the ambulance to arrive,” he advises.

What he says feels true but she can't quite will herself to get back on board. She continues watching the older man as he shouts into the air, gesticulating and pacing, forcing the drenched assistant to scramble after him as he tries to keep the rain off his expensive suit. From the sounds of things, he had been on the phone when the collision occurred.

“No, no, no! Why is no one listening to me? I will not be at the studio in 30 minutes. I'm not going anywhere until my lawyer gets here. I was hit by a FUCKING BUS!” His voice escalates to louder shouts as he upgrades to actual swear words this time.

As slow as her brain is, Allison is still able to piece a few things together in the moment. Studio could mean art, but in this town, it means show business, almost certainly. She doesn't recognize his face, so he likely isn't an actor. This means behind the scenes, where the real power is. From his car and the way he is dressed, that is probably some real power too. The kind of person who's attention she has been fighting for. The kind she has been trying to impress. And here he stood, shouting in the middle of the road while the desert rains pelted them and his car steamed softly behind them.

“Wait, wait, wait...” he says to his distant serf as his gaze falls on Allison. “Miss, are you okay?”

 _No, no, no._ All the ways she currently isn't okay rushes in on her just then. If she could only lie down, just for a moment, just until her head clears. She can see her apartment, small and poorly lit, filled with second-hand furniture she has scraped together. _All on my own. I did this. Just like any other 21-year-old. I made my own way._ But the words no longer filled her with pride. Maybe it is only her head injury, but she feels so weary. She just wants to be done with all this. She doesn't want to be riding buses with sticky seats for hours every day while the world rushes by the tinted windows. Maybe just a push. Just a little push.

“Miss?” Armani asks again.

Allison leans forward, her lips nearly brushing his ear as she pulls in a shaky breath.

_“I heard a rumor...”_

 


End file.
